


against the pink sky blackberry tangles

by vtforpedro



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dwarves and Hobbits Have the Same Lifespan, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, kids to tweens to adults, so many blackberries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24098155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtforpedro/pseuds/vtforpedro
Summary: In which young Bilbo and Thorin meet at a blackberry thicket and grow older together, sowing a love of their own, whether they are near to each other or apart.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 65
Kudos: 355
Collections: Fireboltcrazed Top Favorite Fics





	against the pink sky blackberry tangles

Bilbo’s feeling a little bit miffed as he walks along the path winding down from Bag End and heading out toward the fields.  
  
His mother had shoved an oversized basket into his arms - not his own smaller one - and told him to go pick blackberries because she had a craving for blackberry pie later in the evening. It had all been very abrupt and Papa had seemed even more flustered and red than usual when Bilbo had left. Mama was in one of her moods, Bilbo supposed.  
  
That’s normally what Bungo would say, at least, but he seemed to be in some sort of mood as well.  
  
It’s not too late in the afternoon but he’ll have to keep an eye on the sun, so he’s not home after dark, or else Mama will be upset again. He thinks this is unfair, as she had interrupted his mapmaking to send him off in search of blackberries.  
  
It is early August, though, the perfect time to pick them, and Mama’s pies are better than any _Lobelia’s_ mother could make. He brightens at the thought and skips down the lane, waving to anyone that might be out and about, despite the heat of the day.  
  
By the time he’s past Hobbiton and near the Woods, where the blackberry thickets grow, his clothes are sticking to his skin and his face is very hot, but when he sees the bushes, heavy and plump with delightful little morsels, he thinks it was worth it.  
  
Miss Plum makes her usual appearance as he chooses a bush to start picking. She’s a small orange tabby, with plum-colored eyes, and she keeps the birds away from the blackberry thicket. Most hobbits have blackberry bushes growing in their gardens, but some smials, like Bag End, are simply too full of flowers that no one has the heart to replace.  
  
At least that’s how Mama puts it, whenever she sends him to gather them.  
  
Miss Plum winds herself around his ankles and he pats her on the head until she’s satisfied, darting off into the thicket to chase away a woodpecker.  
  
Bilbo can’t resist popping a few blackberries into his mouth, only stopping when his fingers begin to stain purple, a sure sign Mama will accuse him of ruining his appetite, before she and Papa always laugh at her cleverness.  
  
He picks the best berries that he can find, moving down along the thicket, filling his oversized basket. Miss Plum comes by to inspect his choices now and then, before she purrs her approval and disappears into the bushes again.  
  
Bilbo is nearly finished when he hears it.  
  
He’s sure it must be a bear, growling at the end of the thicket, and a few bushes are rustling alarmingly. Bilbo gasps and clutches at his chest in alarm. But then he realizes that the bear sounds rather like a boy instead.  
  
A boy that’s growling, yes, and who does that? But a boy nonetheless.  
  
Bilbo carefully approaches the swaying bushes. “Otho? Is that you?”  
  
The bushes immediately still and there is no answer.  
  
Bilbo taps his foot on the ground and frowns. “Hello? Fatty?”  
  
When he receives no response, Bilbo sighs and moves closer to the bushes, thinking it’s very rude that no one should answer him. He begins to peer into the bush, attempting to see who might be on the other side, when someone springs up from it.  
  
He’s a boy, yes, but he’s not any boy Bilbo’s ever seen.  
  
His mouth is stained purple from what Bilbo suspects must have been quite a feast and his eyes are very pretty, the color of the sky. He looks alarmed, though, and angry, so very angry.  
  
“It’s alright,” Bilbo says quickly to this very odd boy. “I was picking blackberries too. Why do you have a beard?”  
  
The boy stares at him for a while, a rather monstrous frown on his face. But he does indeed have a strange little beard, coming down from his ears and tapering off near his chin. His hair is longer and wavier than any hobbit Bilbo knows of, dark as the night and it must have once been shining with oil, but now it looks like the birds have gotten to it, what with all the sticks and leaves in it.  
  
Bilbo giggles.  
  
The other boy’s frown turns into a scowl and he turns on his heel, beginning to stomp away.  
  
“Wait!” Bilbo cries. He leaves the basket on the ground and backs up a few paces before running forward and leaping over the bushes with not much trouble. Only a scratched ankle. “Wait!” Bilbo says again, panting. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I’ve never seen a dwarf before.”  
  
The boy has stopped and turned to face Bilbo again, watching him with ill-disguised contempt and suspicion.  
  
He is indeed a dwarf, his large nose and forehead and stocky body familiar to Bilbo, from the drawings and paintings of dwarves in his many books. He didn’t know that young dwarves grew beards as well and wonders if the boy’s will tumble down to his belt someday.  
  
“Well, have you ever seen a hobbit before?” Bilbo asks smartly.  
  
He frowns more at this, consideringly this time, then shakes his head.  
  
“Then I think we ought to shake hands,” Bilbo says as he straightens out his rumpled waistcoat. “A special occasion, don’t you think?”  
  
“Shake hands?” the other boy asks. His voice is so quiet that Bilbo leans forward a little to hear him.  
  
Bilbo opens his mouth, then closes it. He supposes dwarves must not shake hands - an uncivilized lot, the Sackville-Baggins’ always say - and decides he must teach this fellow how.  
  
“Like this,” he says and holds out his hands very carefully, willing it to not tremble. “And you do the same. Then I’ll take your hand—”  
  
The boy looks annoyed. “I know _how,”_ he mumbles. “I don’t know why.”  
  
“Oh,” Bilbo says, feeling rather foolish. He drops his hand and kicks lightly at the dirt under his foot. The dwarf’s eyes linger on his feet for a while, until Bilbo suspects he should be offended, before he meets his eye again. “I only thought that it was special, you seeing a hobbit and me seeing a dwarf for the first time. Special occasions call for handshakes.”  
  
He’s not entirely sure this is accurate, as there is a lot of handshaking for odd reasons in the Shire, such as winning a drinking contest or showing off your newest pig.  
  
The boy is quiet for such a long time that Bilbo is preparing to walk off in shame, before he abruptly straightens out and nods. “We should shake hands,” he declares importantly, like it was his idea all along.  
  
But Bilbo doesn’t mind that. He’s merely thrilled that the boy agrees this is indeed special and goes to reach for his hand.  
  
The boy clasps his rather large hand around Bilbo’s and they shake for a moment. But then the boy moves his hand further up Bilbo’s arm, until he’s grasping it near the elbow and gives it one, firm shake.  
  
“Is that how dwarves do it?” Bilbo asks excitedly with a grin.  
  
The other boy nods and then he does something quite unexpected.  
  
He smiles.  
  
There’s an odd sensation in Bilbo’s belly then, a bit like butterflies have gotten loose in there, but he supposes that it must be because of the special circumstance he’s found himself in.  
  
“I’m Bilbo,” he says. “Bilbo Baggins.”  
  
The boy hesitates, looking unsure for a moment, before he smiles faintly again. “I’m Thorin.”  
  
“Thorin! What an odd name,” Bilbo says cheerfully. “Are you staying in the Green Dragon Inn?”  
  
Thorin looks vaguely upset before he shakes his head. “No,” he mutters. “We’re passing through on the way to Bree.”  
  
“We?” Bilbo asks and looks around. “Are your parents with you? How many dwarves are there?”  
  
“Not many. Mother is,” Thorin says with another frown. “They told me to look for food.”  
  
Bilbo opens his mouth to ask why they haven’t brought any with them, before he remembers Papa telling him not everyone in the world is so lucky as hobbits, to always have plentiful pantries.  
  
He looks at Thorin’s blackberry-stained lips and wonders if he was eating them because he was hungry, rather than because he simply likes blackberries like Bilbo does.  
  
Thorin seems uncomfortable as Bilbo stares at him and he coughs a little.  
  
“You haven’t brought a basket with you,” he points out instead. “You’ll need it to bring them back to your Mama.”  
  
Thorin holds up a very small, very dirty bag and Bilbo shudders.  
  
“No, no,” he says and looks at the bushes. He takes in a deep breath before he leaps over them again, falling in a heap on the other side.  
  
Thorin appears above the bushes, peering over them in concern at Bilbo.  
  
“I’m fine,” he says as he leaps up and brushes off his trousers, wincing only a little. He grabs his basket full of berries and hands it across the thicket to Thorin. “Here! There’s plenty here for a few pies or maybe just to eat for a while.”  
  
“I can’t take it,” Thorin says with another one of his frowns, stepping away.  
  
“Of course you can, it’s a gift,” Bilbo says. “Mama has lots of baskets.”  
  
There’s an odd look on Thorin’s face that Bilbo can’t place. He seems angry for a while, but then his thick eyebrows soften and he looks at Bilbo very firmly.  
  
“Thank you,” he says as he takes the basket. “Thank you,” he repeats, equally firmly, as if Bilbo hadn’t quite got it the first time.  
  
Bilbo isn’t entirely sure, but he suspects there’s something special about this too. “You’re welcome,” he says breathlessly and grins. “Will you be here very long?”  
  
“We leave in the morning,” Thorin says as he glances somewhere behind him, then back at Bilbo. “We’ll be coming through again, in a few weeks, to go back home.”  
  
“Do you live in the Blue Mountains?”  
  
There’s another hesitation as Thorin looks sharply at Bilbo, before he says, “Yes,” quietly.  
  
“Yes, I’ve just drawn them on my map,” Bilbo says. When Thorin looks confused, he shrugs modestly. “I draw maps. Sometimes I make them up too and pretend I’ve traveled all over Middle Earth. Seeing elves and… and dwarves! And cities of men…” He trails off at the look in Thorin’s eyes.  
  
He looks sad.  
  
“Papa says that when you make up a map, it’s filled with exactly what you want it to be,” Bilbo says, because that seemed important at the time, and he thinks it must be important now too.  
  
Thorin gazes at him for a while before he smiles again (Bilbo thinks he mustn't do it often) and nods, more confidently this time. “I have to go,” he says. “Maybe…”  
  
Bilbo waits for him, but he doesn’t continue. “Maybe when you come back, you can come up to Bag End and say hello?”  
  
“What is Bag End?”  
  
“Where I live, of course! Up at the top of the hill,” Bilbo says, pointing at the path leading westward. “Not far from here.”  
  
“The top of the hill,” Thorin repeats with a nod. “Farewell, Bilbo.”  
  
“Oh, erm… yes, farewell, Thorin,” Bilbo says and nearly drops into a curtsy, before he remembers that Thorin is a dwarf and might speak this way outside of games hobbitlings play.  
  
They stare at each other for a bit longer and Bilbo doesn’t know if Thorin will come by in a few weeks, so he takes in his small beard and blue eyes and purple lips and knows he will remember him.  
  
Thorin smiles again and then he’s off, tumbling through the trees and brambles like some wild beast. Bilbo watches him go with a smile of his own, until he feels Miss Plum at his ankles again. He scratches her head for a while before he sighs.  
  
“I suppose I ought to go apologize to Mama and ask her for another basket.”  
  
And so Bilbo goes home and tells his mother, who looks more refreshed now, about his encounter with a dwarf in the thicket.  
  
——  
  
Bilbo’s not entirely sure that either of his parents believe him about Thorin. Papa had even asked him if he’s sure Thorin was real, until Mama scolded him and Bilbo told him firmly that he was, thank you very much.  
  
He knows he talks quite a lot about Thorin and assures his parents that he will be visiting the top of the hill soon, but he isn’t truly so confident. He doesn’t say that out loud, too frightened that saying it will make it come true. But a few weeks pass and Thorin does not come to Bag End and Bilbo tries not to be upset about it.  
  
“Maybe he’s delayed,” Mama says as she strokes his hair, when he’s got his face buried in her apron, pretending he isn’t upset. “He might still come.”  
  
Bilbo suspects he won’t, but he merely nods and puts on a brave face as he goes through his days.  
  
He doesn’t tell his friends about Thorin, wanting to keep him, or the idea of him, to himself, but after five weeks have passed, he thinks he will tell Hamfast. Ham is more interested in elves, Bilbo knows, but he will be amazed that Bilbo has met a dwarf either way, and perhaps it will cheer Bilbo up to see it.  
  
Bilbo decides he will tell Ham in the morning, as he gets into bed one night, and stares at the flicker of a candlelight, and imagines that Thorin is doing the same wherever he might be.  
  
But when Bilbo wakes in the morning, he finds Thorin is much closer to him than he thought.  
  
Rather, he’s at Bilbo’s window, peering inside.  
  
Bilbo screams and Mama’s voice appears at his door soon after, asking him if he’s alright.  
  
“Thorin’s here!” he announces brightly, once he has gotten over his nasty shock and leaps out of bed to run to the window.  
  
“That’s wonderful, darling,” Mama says, not seriously enough for this special visit, in Bilbo’s opinion, as she leaves his door.  
  
Bilbo opens his window. “Hello Thorin!” he says, his heart jumping in his chest like a rabbit frolicking in the fields. “You’ve got leaves in your hair again. Goodness, did you run all the way here?”  
  
Thorin is out of breath, sweat beading on his forehead, his hair full of leaves. He was smiling, but he frowns now, and Bilbo scolds himself for upsetting his friend.  
  
“I didn’t know which hill,” Thorin says a bit defensively as he picks out the leaves.  
  
“Oh,” Bilbo says, thinking that _the top of the hill_ was obvious enough, but Thorin is a dwarf after all, and maybe it wasn’t so obvious. “Would you like to come in?”  
  
Thorin peers inside of the room for a while before he looks over his shoulder. He nods after a moment of thinking it over and Bilbo clears off his desk so that Thorin might be able to climb inside.  
  
He shows Thorin his bedroom and his maps and his books and his wooden toys. Thorin looks very impressed, but also very confused, and makes odd comments about the _construction_ of Bag End that Bilbo doesn’t particularly understand.  
  
When Bilbo asks if Thorin would like to join his family for breakfast, Thorin looks rather frightened and peers back at the window, as if he is thinking of running away.  
  
“Your Mama doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”  
  
Thorin sighs and shakes his head, avoiding Bilbo’s eye. “She thinks I’m looking for food again. I don’t have very long.”  
  
“Well, you won’t find many blackberries anymore,” Bilbo muses. Thorin looks rather upset by this and Bilbo hastily adds, “but plenty of other things grow in the thickets and woods. We’ll find some together!”  
  
He suspects Thorin doesn’t know how to find mushrooms, but he keeps that to himself.  
  
Thorin smiles at this and nods, looking more cheered.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want any breakfast? Mama makes very good breakfasts.”  
  
As Thorin opens his mouth to reply, Bilbo’s bedroom door opens and Mama herself appears.  
  
She cries out and gasps as she sees Thorin, her hands clutching at her skirts, her eyes very wide.  
  
Thorin looks as shocked as Mama and shuffles behind Bilbo, his brow furrowed and his shoulders arched up.  
  
“Mama, this is Thorin,” Bilbo says formally and a bit smugly. “Thorin, this is Mama.”  
  
Mama recovers herself more quickly than Thorin. “Thorin!” she says breathlessly. “Yes, of course it is! Bilbo has told us so much about you! I’m glad you were able to visit him again.”  
  
Thorin doesn’t seem to know what to say to this, frowning one of his frowns, looking between Bilbo and his mother.  
  
“I’ve just made breakfast,” Mama says. “Would you like to join us?”  
  
Bilbo bites his lip as he eagerly awaits Thorin’s answer, but Thorin remains quiet. He’s staring down at his boots with a frown and Bilbo’s concerned he’ll make a bolt for the window. But Thorin opens his mouth to respond and Bilbo waits with bated breath.  
  
And then Thorin’s stomach growls, very loudly, and Bilbo thinks he sounds much more like a bear now than he did in the thicket.  
  
“Well,” Mama says with a laugh. “That’s decided then. Come along, darlings, before the eggs get cold.”  
  
Thorin’s cheeks are dashingly red and he holds his hands over his stomach. “But I…”  
  
“We don’t have much time,” Bilbo tells his mother importantly. “Thorin needs to be back soon.”  
  
Thorin nods quickly at this.  
  
But Mama has an answer for everything, and promises not to keep him for very long, and leads them on a march to the kitchen. Papa is sitting at the table and looks as startled as Mama was to see Thorin and gapes at him for a while until Mama kicks his shin.  
  
Bilbo knows Thorin is a quiet boy and hopes that his parents will not ask him too many questions. But Mama has an answer for everything and steers Papa away when he asks where Thorin is from and where his parents are.  
  
They eat many eggs with runny yolks and browned sausages and an entire mound of sourdough toast. Mama surprises Thorin with a jar of blackberry jam and Bilbo sighs with relief when he sees his friend smile again. Time seems to be forgotten after that and Thorin’s shoulders loosen as he swings his feet under the table, and tells Mama about their journey to Bree.  
  
Thorin and the other dwarves did some work there to help the men of Bree prepare for winter and he speaks proudly of his work fitting horses with horseshoes. Bilbo feels a little silly for his wobbly mapmaking then, as Thorin is already an accomplished blacksmith from the sound of it, and they are only children. But he does remember how impressed Thorin had seemed when he showed him his make-believe maps and soothes himself with another sausage.  
  
And, of course, Mama has an answer for everything, when Thorin grimaces with every sip of his tea and she adds honey to it until he’s smiling again.  
  
After they eat another plateful of breakfast, along with a slice of seed cake (which Thorin seems to enjoy quite a lot), Bilbo shows Thorin into the sitting room and to another box of toys. There are some dwarves carved out of wood that Thorin nods his approval at, just as Bilbo suspected he would.  
  
“Thorin, dear,” Mama says as she appears in the sitting room, a large basket on her arm. “It’ll be luncheon before we know it and I wouldn’t want your mother to worry about you.”  
  
Thorin gasps as he looks at the window and the position of the sun. _“Amad_ will already be worrying,” he mutters and looks rather angry with himself suddenly. “Thank you, Missus Baggins, but I must go.”  
  
“Take this with you. You did seem to enjoy the seed cake,” Mama says as she hands him the basket, peeling a soft white cloth back to reveal two entire seed cakes and an unopened jar of blackberry jam, along with two loaves of sourdough bread.  
  
Bilbo smiles as he sees Thorin’s eyes go wide and he looks at Mama with wonder - Bilbo often looks at her the same way, so he understands the feeling - before he’s frowning all over again. Bilbo wishes he wouldn’t frown so much and thinks they must live very different lives, for Thorin to be so serious all the time.  
  
“I can’t,” he finally says. “I’m not supposed to. I brought back the basket Bilbo gave me, it’s outside.”  
  
Mama observes Thorin for a moment before she smiles. “Well, you can leave that basket and borrow this one instead. You can bring it back whenever you pass by Hobbiton again,” she says softly. When Thorin only continues to look distressed, Mama smiles more widely. “My baskets are very sturdy, aren’t they? I’m sure it will prove useful on your way back home.”  
  
Thorin considers this for a while, his eyes darting between the contents of the basket and Mama’s face. He finally smiles, hesitantly, and nods. “We used the other one on the way to Bree.”  
  
“Perfect,” Mama says and hands the basket to Thorin.  
  
Bilbo notices that he doesn’t even struggle to hold it and remembers that dwarves are supposedly very strong. But Thorin is young and not much bigger than Bilbo and he hopes that he will be able to carry it back without any trouble.  
  
Papa appears and shakes Thorin’s hand formally, telling him he is welcome any time, and warns him that a storm will be coming in a few days’ time, so that he might be prepared for it. Thorin seems confused by this, until Bilbo tells him Papa’s knees can always predict the weather.  
  
Mama leads them out of the smial and through the garden. Thorin looks left and right along the path as they step onto it and scowls.  
  
“Bilbo can show you back to the woods, if you’d like,” Mama says with a smile. “He’s very fond of the woods.”  
  
Bilbo is a bit embarrassed by this but Thorin looks at him then and Bilbo remembers that he will be saying goodbye soon and he doesn’t know when he might see Thorin again, or if he ever will, and decides it doesn’t matter.  
  
“Yes,” Thorin says and smiles. He looks at Mama and bows politely. “Thank you, Missus Baggins.”  
  
“Oh, you’re welcome, darling! Come visit us again, if you’re near, and call me Bella when you do,” Mama says with a bright laugh and curtsy of her own. “We’d be very glad to have you.”  
  
Thorin’s nose is red and he nods until Bilbo takes his free hand.  
  
“It’s this way,” he says and begins to tug Thorin down the hill, Thorin’s hand tight around his own. “Let’s go before your Mama gets mad.”  
  
Mama says goodbye after picking out one last leaf from Thorin’s hair and they hurry down the hill and toward the path that will lead them back to the woods. Bilbo wonders if Thorin will still want to forage for mushrooms and perhaps some radishes, if they can find them, or if he will be satisfied with Mama’s basket. He secretly hopes that he will be able to spend a little more time with Thorin, the worrying thought that he will never see him again stuck in his mind now.  
  
Thorin abruptly stops once they’ve gotten to the bottom of the hill and makes some sort of growling noise again. Bilbo peers at him in concern, before he realizes that it was a _word,_ not in Westron, and perhaps not a very nice one, with how grim he looks.  
  
Bilbo follows his gaze down the path and gasps as he sees yet another strange visitor.  
  
He’s a dwarf too, dressed in red traveling leathers, with long hair and an equally long beard that falls past his chest and curls outward in an odd way. His brown hair is starting to grey and when he gets closer, Bilbo sees that he must be older than Papa, and wonders if perhaps he is Thorin’s grandfather.  
  
Bilbo gapes at the second dwarf he has ever seen as he approaches them, a sternness on his face but a kindness to his eyes. He stops quietly in front of them and gazes at Thorin steadily before he looks at their joined hands.  
  
Thorin hastily lets go of Bilbo and Bilbo tries not to feel hurt by this, but his heart feels as if it drifts to lie somewhere in his stomach.  
  
When Thorin opens his mouth to speak, the other dwarf holds his hand up for silence and looks at Bilbo.  
  
“You must be the lad who helped Thorin find blackberries some weeks ago,” he says, his voice more gentle than Bilbo was expecting.  
  
Bilbo can do nothing but nod mutely and the other dwarf chuckles.  
  
“Yes, we thought he might have found you again when he didn’t come back,” he says as he looks at Thorin, who looks studiously away. “You _do_ know what’s at stake, Thorin,” he says more firmly.  
  
Thorin kicks at the ground and shrugs a shoulder, still turned away. “What does it matter anymore?”  
  
The other dwarf observes him for a while, clasping his hands behind his back. He sighs gently. “It does matter, greatly,” he says and his voice is soft again, as if he understands why Thorin sounds so upset.  
  
Bilbo doesn’t and frowns at his friend. “It was my fault,” he says as he looks at the older dwarf. “I invited him to breakfast.”  
  
He smiles as he looks at Bilbo for a while, peering at him in the way the wizard Gandalf does whenever he comes to visit, always leaving Bilbo with the impression he has read his mind.  
  
“That was kind of you, laddie,” he says. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Bilbo,” Thorin answers and raises his chin defiantly as he looks at the other dwarf. “His name is Bilbo Baggins and he’s my friend.”  
  
“Indeed he is,” the other dwarf says as he gazes between them. He bows as politely to Bilbo as Thorin had to Mama. “Balin, at your service. I see you’ve given Thorin another basket.”  
  
“Mama is letting him borrow it. She says he can return it when he visits again,” Bilbo says quickly, so Thorin might not get into more trouble.  
  
Balin raises his eyebrows as he looks at Thorin, who turns away again, and must be very angry to do so. Or perhaps he is embarrassed, but Bilbo hopes not.  
  
“Very good then,” Balin says as he claps his hands together. “Let us get back, Thorin, before your mother sends someone to look for us both.”  
  
Bilbo understands that this means he will be saying goodbye to Thorin now, rather than in the woods, and feels a sting behind his eyes. He sniffs as he looks at Thorin, who he thinks looks rather upset by it as well.  
  
But Thorin stares at Bilbo and he stares back, thinking that this moment is as important as the first one.  
  
“I hope you’ll come back,” Bilbo says with a wobbly lip. “Mama will make you sausage and seed cake again.”  
  
Thorin smiles a little, but his eyes are sad. “I’ll come back,” he says firmly. “I swear it. Farewell, Bilbo.”  
  
“Oh, erm… yes, farewell, Thorin,” Bilbo says and clasps his hands tightly behind his back so he stops fidgeting. “You’ll stay safe, won’t you, going back home?”  
  
Thorin nods.  
  
“Papa said it’s going to rain.”  
  
Thorin nods again.  
  
“Goodbye.”  
  
“Goodbye,” Thorin says and doesn’t meet Balin’s eye as he turns away.  
  
Balin squeezes his shoulder and nods politely to Bilbo before they’re off down the lane. Bilbo watches them go and feels loneliness creeping up on him, the way that it sometimes does when a friend decides he’s too much of a Took for their liking.  
  
But Thorin sets the basket down and darts away from Balin and he’s coming back to Bilbo and Bilbo wishes it might be for forever.  
  
He hugs Thorin as tightly as Thorin hugs him, but they have no more words to share, and soon Thorin is walking down the lane again.  
  
Soon he is far away and soon he is out of sight, gone back to the woods and to the Blue Mountains, and Bilbo knows he will not forget him.  
  
——  
  
Bilbo doesn’t forget Thorin, not over the months and years that pass. He grows a bit taller and a bit rounder, looking more and more like his father every day, according to his grandmother.  
  
Mother makes him promise that he won’t always be as stuffy as his father no matter how much he grows in return.  
  
Thorin stays on his mind at the beginning, but once Bilbo has reached his mid-tweens, he’s merely a passing fancy. He had known he would not likely see Thorin again and though it had taken him nearly a year to accept that, it has been easier now to think of those days as a fond memory.  
  
He’s rather busy nowadays anyway, fending off any potential suitors that come along with a bundle of daffodils in hand, seeking to be his summer romance.  
  
It had been flattering at first, of course, as he was always under the impression that most other hobbits found him to be strange and certainly not worthy of affection. Many hobbits are still upset that his parents got married - a Took and a Baggins, scandalous and downright outrageous for some - and tend to take it out on Bilbo, merely for existing.  
  
To have their children look for his hand to hold had been what he thought was a turning point.  
  
Of course Lobelia had to spoil it for him. She herself had come with daffodils and when Bilbo had politely turned them down, she had snarled at him, telling him the only reason anyone was trying to win his favor was that they hoped to marry him and get the Baggins fortune - and Bag End - once they came of age.  
  
Bilbo hadn’t wanted to believe her, but he’d paid more attention to his suitors then, and realized they were the very same hobbits who had rejected him when they were younger. Anyone that he remained friends with into his tweens hadn’t come offering, as they knew Bilbo had no real interest in that sort of thing.  
  
It had stung. Quite a lot, actually, and Bilbo is still nursing his wounded pride a year after Lobelia’s nasty confession.  
  
But daffodils and insincere hobbits still come and Bilbo spends the majority of his time out in the woods, sitting under oak trees and reading, so he might get away from them.  
  
He is doing that today, under the shade of a large tree, escaping a bit of the late July heat. He has a handkerchief filled with wild blackberries on his lap as he flips through a wonderful tale of a man who slayed a dragon.  
  
Bilbo is so absorbed in his tale that the sight of a wicker basket being set at his feet makes him yelp in surprise.  
  
His blackberries tumble off of his lap and onto the ground. “Blast it!” Bilbo says and turns to scowl at whoever has snuck up on him.  
  
He can do nothing but gape.  
  
A dwarf, much taller these days and certainly more… broad, with hair that’s fallen past his shoulders and a beard that’s nearly fully grown. The moustache hairs don’t quite line up with the hair on his chin, but he still makes for a rather dashing sight.  
  
“Thorin,” Bilbo says numbly.  
  
“Hello, Bilbo,” Thorin says, his voice still quiet but much more rumbly and deep now, waking the butterflies in Bilbo’s stomach. “Your mother said I would find you here.”  
  
“Did she,” Bilbo says, at a loss for what to say, he is so very shocked. “Oh.”  
  
His friend back in the Shire, when he thought he would never see him again, and they are both so much older and yet, not really, he supposes. Only midway into their tweens, but it feels very different now, seeing Thorin.  
  
 _If anyone were to give me daffodils, I’d want it to be him,_ Bilbo thinks, and is promptly alarmed by that train of thought.  
  
He leaps up, abandoning his book on the soft grass and straightening himself out. “Well, goodness! I don’t suspect I’ll grow as much as you have,” he says as he realizes Thorin is now a head taller than him. “Except maybe sideways.”  
  
Thorin blinks at Bilbo for a while before he grins. “Hobbits seem to grow in circles.”  
  
“...yes,” Bilbo concedes, supposing that it is true. “And dwarves in squares.”  
  
They both laugh and Bilbo wants to hug Thorin then, so much so that he aches with it, but he thinks that it might be awkward. They’re no longer children, free with affection - Bilbo curses being a tween, where a simple hug between friends can be looked at as more by every nosey adult around.  
  
“How… how have you been then?” Bilbo asks and tries not to be distracted by Thorin’s very, very blue eyes.  
  
“Well,” Thorin says. “Busy. I haven’t been able to leave home until now.”  
  
Bilbo stares dumbly at Thorin for a while, until he frowns, and he shakes himself out of it. He’s certain Thorin’s voice shouldn’t be so deep and curses it for being distracting.  
  
“Oh, well,” he says. “I wondered if everything was going well in the Blue Mountains. Are you on the way to Bree again?”  
  
“Aye,” Thorin says and smiles faintly. “Mother stayed in the mountain this time.” He frowns. “But Balin is with our party, of course.”  
  
“Of course,” Bilbo agrees, not really knowing what Balin has to do with anything. “Well, goodness! Do tell me you have a bit. Mother would very much like to visit with you again.”  
  
“I did promise to return the basket,” Thorin says as he sweeps it back up onto his arm. He pulls back what Bilbo suspects is the very same cloth Mother had given him and shows Bilbo a great many freshly picked blackberries. “You’ve lost some of yours.”  
  
Bilbo laughs. “You did startle me,” he says and smiles as Thorin’s eyes dart away. “I’ll forgive you, of course, if you’d let me use some of these to bake you a pie. How long do you have?”  
  
“We leave in the morning. Balin gave me leave to spend some time here, but he wants me back before it grows dark,” Thorin says. “If that’s enough time for a pie.”  
  
“Plenty,” Bilbo says and picks up his book, brushing off a few pieces of grass. He’s disappointed he will only see Thorin for today and perhaps one more day on his way back home, but he supposes he can’t ask for more than that.  
  
They walk out of the woods and up the lane back into Hobbiton. Bilbo sees a few leaves in Thorin’s hair once it’s shining under the sun and laughs joyfully as he picks them out while Thorin mutters about getting stuck in the thicket while picking berries. His nose is red when Bilbo is done and he pats his shoulder fondly.  
  
The residents of Hobbiton will always stare at anyone new - and perhaps not so new, when he thinks of Gandalf and all the scowls he gets - but Bilbo does feel mildly offended on Thorin’s behalf as some of his neighbors point and gawk. Thorin does seem irritated by it but he keeps his chin up high and Bilbo decides to do the same.  
  
How many of them can say they’re friends with a dwarf from so far away?  
  
Bilbo asks Thorin about his life in the Blue Mountains and he speaks of starting his blacksmithing apprenticeship not long after his first trip into Bree. He talks about many of the things he’s learned to make, some Bilbo has never heard of, and complains now and then of his siblings getting in the way.  
  
“I didn’t know you had siblings,” Bilbo says, trying not to bounce with excitement. “How many?”  
  
“Two,” Thorin says with a sour twist to his mouth that says he’d really rather it be none. “My sister is old enough now to come up with her own ways to torture me, rather than only my brother’s.”  
  
Bilbo laughs and smiles as Thorin scowls. “It’s rather lonely being the only child, you know!” he says. “I wouldn’t mind an annoying little sister some days.”  
  
“You’ve never met Dis,” Thorin mutters darkly. He glances at Bilbo and sighs. “But I suppose it would be lonely without them.”  
  
Bilbo thinks about telling Thorin that he doesn’t even have many friends and how that makes it even lonelier, but he decides that sounds a bit too pathetic and keeps it to himself.  
  
They walk up the hill to Bag End and Bilbo sees that his mother is pruning the vegetable garden. She sees them and grins, wiping off her hands.  
  
“You’ve found him then!” she says happily. “Oh, Bilbo, isn’t it so wonderful to see Thorin again?”  
  
“Yes,” Bilbo says as calmly as he can. He wouldn’t want his mother to know how gladdened he really is by Thorin’s presence. “Thank you for sending him to me.”  
  
Belladonna purses her lips in the way that she does when she means not to laugh and looks at Thorin. “How does luncheon sound?”  
  
He nods and hands the basket to her. “Thank you.”  
  
Mother takes the basket and peers inside and laughs brightly. “Blackberries, of course! I’m sure we can do—”  
  
“I’m making him a pie,” Bilbo says hastily. “And some jam, if he’d like it.”  
  
“Of course, darling,” Mother says with an amused smile as she ushers them inside. “I’ll be sure to stay out of your way once luncheon has been eaten.”  
  
They follow her inside and Bilbo notices the way Thorin looks around, his eyes curious and fond, as if Bag End might be a pleasant place for him. Like it might have been a pleasant memory.  
  
It makes Bilbo’s heart flutter and he firmly looks away and follows Mother into the kitchen.  
  
“This is a special occasion, isn’t it!” Mother says as she smiles at Thorin. “What sort of meal might you like, Thorin?”  
  
Thorin looks rather put on the spot, opening and closing his mouth for a while, before he merely frowns, such a familiar sight that Bilbo’s heart aches.  
  
Mother laughs. “What foods _don’t_ you like?”  
  
Thorin shuffles a little and clears his throat. “Mushrooms,” he mumbles quietly.  
  
Bilbo remembers suddenly that he had meant to find mushrooms with Thorin the last time he saw him and is quite grateful that they hadn’t been able to, or else he would have felt foolish indeed.  
  
“Well, those are easy enough to avoid, aren’t they?” Mother says cheerfully and heads out of the kitchen to the pantry across the hall.  
  
“Do you really not like mushrooms?” Bilbo asks. He’s sure he’s never met a soul who hasn’t loved them.  
  
Thorin frowns. “Most dwarves don’t,” he says with a bit of an edge to his tone.  
  
“Oh,” Bilbo says and coughs a little. “Of course. They’re my favorite, is all.”  
  
“Then eat a share for me when you do have them,” Thorin says. “Is there anything _you_ don’t like?”  
  
“You’d be hard pressed to find a hobbit who doesn’t like everything under the sun,” Papa’s voice says from the doorway.  
  
They startle as they turn to look at him and Papa chuckles as Thorin bows quite low. “None of that, lad,” he says. “You’re home, when you’re here.”  
  
Thorin looks even more startled by this, his cheeks rosy, and opens his mouth to thank Bungo, Bilbo suspects, but his father pulls out a handkerchief and coughs nastily into it.  
  
“Are you well, Mister Baggins?” Thorin asks with concern.  
  
Bungo waves off the question as he finishes his coughing fit. “Only a pesky cough that’s been sticking around after my yearly summer cold, blasted things,” he says and smiles wryly. “Not to worry, I’m healthy as an ox.”  
  
“Though his temperament is the opposite,” Mother says as she reappears in the kitchen with her basket full of food she’ll prepare for luncheon, a small frown on her face. “Isn’t that right, love?”  
  
“Of course, dear,” Bungo says as he winks at Thorin. “Would you like any help?”  
  
“No, no, go rest. Bilbo has pie dough to make while I cook. Perhaps a drink for Thorin before you go.”  
  
Bungo weedles out what Thorin might want to drink from him and gets him situated at the table with cool orange juice and bread and blackberry jam.  
  
Mother keeps up a steady stream of conversation as she cooks and Bilbo makes a pie dough that he’s proud of. She asks Thorin what he has been doing and laughs when he mutters complaints about his siblings, telling him stories about her own siblings. She is appropriately impressed by his blacksmithing apprenticeship and thoroughly embarrasses Bilbo by mentioning that he’s taken up writing as a hobby.  
  
He hopes Thorin won’t ask to see his work, as he’d rather burn it first.  
  
But thankfully they move on from that dangerous territory and Bilbo sits at the table and rests his chin in his hand and smiles at Thorin as he talks about how far their home has come along since they last saw each other.  
  
Mother asks where home was before and Thorin goes still and quiet, until Mother says that home is sometimes where the people you love most are. Thorin agrees but he’s quiet for a while after that.  
  
Luncheon is served after some time, spiced beef and roasted root vegetables, missing the traditional topping of sauteed mushrooms. But Mother’s garlic and cheddar mashed potatoes more than make up for it and Bilbo has three servings worth.  
  
Papa has joined them and he asks about Thorin’s work as a blacksmith, seeming to be very curious about something he wouldn’t normally bother with. Bilbo isn’t quite sure how to feel about it. He likes that his parents are interested in Thorin but he fears they may embarrass him.  
  
But Thorin is more talkative than he was some years ago and answers Bungo’s questions patiently and proudly.  
  
Mother does the washing up when they’ve finished and Bilbo enlists Thorin’s help to make the blackberry pie. It doesn’t take very long, no cooking to be done, and soon the pie (with a bit of a wonky but endearing crust) is in the oven. Mother tells Bilbo she will let him know when it’s done, if he’d like to show Thorin his bedroom, and he blushes as he leads him out of the kitchen.  
  
They pass the sitting room where Bungo is having another coughing fit and go down the hall into Bilbo’s bedroom.  
  
“Is he truly well?” Thorin asks after Bilbo has closed the door.  
  
“Hmm? Oh, yes! Yes, of course,” Bilbo says with a frown as he quickly inspects his bedroom for anything embarrassing. “His coughs always do seem to linger a bit longer than ours. But he’ll be fine in a week.”  
  
He hides away his journals and the drawings inside before he shows Thorin how his bedroom has changed. There are far fewer toys and quite a lot more books and framed maps he’s drawn on the walls. His bed is bigger now and his desk, but the room is large enough that it isn’t so cramped.  
  
“What does your bedroom look like?” he asks Thorin as he sits on the edge of his bed.  
  
Thorin is staring at one of the maps, the one that’s got the east detailed, and hums. “Not so impressive,” he says quietly. “Stone walls and sturdy furniture. Some things that I have made in the forge. A stone desk for my studies.”  
  
“For your apprenticeship?”  
  
“Aye. Mostly,” Thorin says with a shrug. He turns to Bilbo and smiles as he comes over and sits near to him, further down along the edge of the bed. “What do you write?”  
  
Bilbo’s cheeks grow hot and he clears his throat. “Oh… nothing so exciting, of course, I’m not very good.”  
  
“Tell me,” Thorin says with a wider smile.  
  
Bilbo sighs. “Only adventures,” he mumbles. “Most hobbits aren’t fond of adventures. They’d rather read about plants and trees and all of the ways to bake bread.”  
  
“There are times where both are useful, aren’t there?”  
  
“Not to hobbits,” Bilbo says. “We’re all rather, erm… well, we like the Shire. We don’t leave it.”  
  
“Never?” Thorin asks, his eyebrows raised.  
  
“I suppose a few of us have,” Bilbo says. “My mother went to Rivendell, once. She wants me to see it someday but I doubt I’ll have the opportunity. A wizard took her there, you see.”  
  
“A wizard?” Thorin asks and chuckles. “Did he have a staff?”  
  
Bilbo leans closer to dig his elbow into Thorin’s. “Yes, he did, you know! A very real wizard, with a great pointy hat and long beard. He comes ‘round now and then and sets off his fireworks.”  
  
Thorin smiles as he gazes at Bilbo. “My grandfather and father met wizards when they were… where we lived before.”  
  
“My father says to never trust a wizard,” Bilbo says knowingly. “But my mother says to never _not_ trust a wizard.”  
  
“I think my grandfather would agree with your father,” Thorin muses. “But he trusts few.”  
  
There’s something heavy about Thorin’s eyes and Bilbo thinks that his life must trouble him deeply sometimes. He wants to ask why Thorin left his home and why he frowns so much, why his eyes are so sad. But he won’t, because he wants Thorin to smile while he has so little time with him.  
  
So Bilbo moves the conversation elsewhere and complains about receiving far too many daffodils on the doorstep or having to turn them down when they’re shoved under his nose as he goes about his business outside. Thorin seems a little annoyed by the conversation and Bilbo can’t fathom why, so he merely mutters that it’s all a bunch of hogwash and he has no interest in marrying anyone anyway.  
  
Thorin seems only marginally cheered by this, but soon Mother is calling them, and they go to the kitchen to take the pie out of the oven. Thorin seems ready to eat it right then and Bilbo laughs as he puts it on the window sill to cool.  
  
They explore the smial some then, all the bedrooms and pantries and cellars.  
  
“I would get lost in here,” Thorin mumbles.  
  
“I suppose I’d have to find you then.”  
  
Thorin politely listens to Bungo’s explanation of the Baggins’ family tree when they get to the sitting room, looking more and more surprised with each aunt or cousin that’s mentioned, until finally he seems only confused.  
  
“Are dwarven families not very large?” Bungo asks with a smile as he catches sight of Thorin’s face.  
  
“No,” Thorin says slowly. “It is rare for dwarves to have more than one child. Many choose not to have children, if they don’t marry and pursue a craft instead.”  
  
“Is that so? How fascinating,” Bungo says. “You have two siblings yourself.”  
  
Thorin looks mildly uncomfortable. “Aye,” he says. “My mother was confined to her bed for her last pregnancy. It can be dangerous to have many children, but it was expected of her.”  
  
Bungo frowns as he watches Thorin fidget and avoid his eye. “Well, she must be a very strong woman, indeed. Perhaps you can bring her to Bag End, the next time you visit us,” he says and turns back to his book.  
  
Bilbo suspects it’s so Thorin doesn’t feel the need to reply. He wonders why his family and his life must be kept so secret, or at least why it bothers Thorin to speak about them, but he won’t trouble his friend with those questions.  
  
Mother has made fresh clotted cream to go on top of their pie slices and Thorin thanks her graciously.  
  
“You’re welcome, darling,” Mother laughs. “Thank Bilbo for the pie though. He’s becoming better than me at making them!”  
  
She disappears from the kitchen as Bilbo blushes. He blushes even more when Thorin thanks him for the pie, seriously enough that it ought to be silly, and perhaps it is, because Bilbo laughs and Thorin follows.  
  
They eat half the pie and make blackberry jam together. There’s enough for three jars and Bilbo packs them into the basket with a fresh cloth, as well as the rest of the pie, and two loaves of Mother’s sourdough bread, with her permission.  
  
The afternoon light is steadily turning more orange, brightening the hills and causing the harvest flies to buzz to life on the trees outside.  
  
It’s time for Thorin to leave and Bilbo finds that he hates it even more than the first time.  
  
He watches as Mother hugs Thorin and he awkwardly pats her back, and he watches as Bungo delights in the forearm grasp that Thorin teaches him. They wish Thorin well in Bree and ask him to drop in again on his way home, which he promises to do.  
  
Bilbo wishes that Thorin only lived down the lane and that he might see him every day. That two short days and years in between another visit was not their reality. He knows he will see Thorin once more before he’s off to the Blue Mountains, but if years go by again, they will be nearly adults or perhaps adults already.  
  
It’s a frightening thought and he decides to keep it to himself.  
  
Once they’ve left Bag End, they walk down the lane leading back to the woods, the basket on Thorin’s left arm, and his right brushing against Bilbo’s as they walk.  
  
They both don’t seem to know what to say and Bilbo regrets it when they get to the blackberry thicket, picked clean by Thorin, but still guarded by Miss Plum, who is elderly now but still spry enough to chase off the most enterprising woodpecker.  
  
“It was good to see you again,” Bilbo says. “Do you know when you’ll be coming back through?”  
  
“When the nights begin to cool,” Thorin says. “A month, perhaps a month and a half.”  
  
“Right,” Bilbo says and bounces on his toes. “Well, I’ll see you then. Be careful, will you?”  
  
“Always,” Thorin says with a smile. “Farewell, Bilbo.”  
  
“Farewell, Thorin,” Bilbo says quietly and bites his lip.  
  
They look at each other for a while before Thorin leans in and Bilbo momentarily panics, thinking perhaps he is about to experience his first kiss and hasn’t prepared for it at all - what should he do with his hands? - but he needn’t have worried. Thorin merely presses his forehead to Bilbo’s and closes his eyes.  
  
Bilbo still doesn’t know what to do with his hands but he closes his eyes as well and thinks that dwarven customs are rather more appealing than hobbits’.  
  
Thorin is gone too soon, pulling away and touching Bilbo’s shoulder before he nods and disappears into the woods, golden light fading after him.  
  
Bilbo watches where he entered the trees, perhaps foolishly hoping he will come running back, like last time, but they were only children then. He turns away finally and says goodbye to Miss Plum and follows the lane home.  
  
——  
  
The weeks go by so slowly that Bilbo fears he may actually lose his mind.  
  
Mother laughs at him and tells him it’s because he knows Thorin will be back this time, without a doubt, and that he must find something to keep him busy.  
  
He tries to write, to work on the adventure of a little hobbit girl in the wide world of men, but the words escape him. So he turns to his older journals and opens them, looking at the tale of another hobbit, a boy, and his friend, a dwarf. There are small drawings etched onto each page, a hobbit fighting off an orc or a dwarf picking blackberries from a magical bush.  
  
Of course the dwarf looks very much like Thorin and the hobbit looks very much like Bilbo, which is why he has never let anyone see these particular journals.  
  
But he manages to add to the old tale, his writing a bit neater and more refined now, and his ideas slightly less chaotic.  
  
It’s a good way to pass the time and he quietly thanks his mother some time later, who always has an answer for everything.  
  
Papa’s cough never seems to go away and Bilbo sees his mother frowning at him from over her books or while she sets a cup of fresh tea in front of him. He reassures them that he’s fine, that coughs merely like to stick now and then, and Bilbo tells his mother not to worry.  
  
The days grow colder faster this year, not even quite September, and on one rainy day, there is a knock at the door.  
  
Bilbo answers it, his parents quite used to him dashing off to the door when there’s a knock, and feels relief flood his veins.  
  
It is Thorin indeed, looking rather sad and soaked, his hair limp against his forehead and a fierce scowl on his face. Bilbo can do nothing more than laugh as he invites him in and coaxes him into taking off his boots so he doesn’t get mud on any of the floors.  
  
Mother gets him warm clothes, though the trousers are rather short, but Thorin smiles and thanks her anyway. She warms up some cider for them all and they sit at the table with Thorin to hear about his time in Bree.  
  
He admits they did better this time than the last, his own skills in the forge far more refined, and mumbles that this winter will not be as harsh as the last few. Bilbo tries not to feel sorry for him, even though he does, immensely so, because he thinks it would wound Thorin’s pride. His parents don’t offer any pity, either, and it warms his heart, to know that they may know Thorin like he does.  
  
Mother cooks an early dinner, so Thorin might enjoy it before it gets dark or even stormier. Bilbo laments that they will not have much time together before he’s off to the Blue Mountains, perhaps never to be seen again.  
  
They eat pork pie and roasted chicken, with herbed tomatoes and hardboiled eggs and drink many glasses of spiced apple cider. Mother serves her famous seed cake, which Bilbo has noticed she has baked extra of these last couple of weeks.  
  
Thorin eats with rapt interest, as he always seems to, and Bilbo and his mother exchange a glance, knowing they will be filling his basket before he is off again.  
  
She suggests they spend some time together in Bilbo’s bedroom and though Bilbo is rather embarrassed at the implications his mind thinks of, he takes Thorin to his bedroom.  
  
He hops on to his bed as he tells Thorin of the blackberry harvest and the summer vegetable competitions. Those are taken very seriously in the Shire, he assures Thorin, as he lays on his bed and tosses a small leather ball that had been on his window sill from hand to hand.  
  
Thorin wanders his room as Bilbo blabbers on about the goings-on of the Shire, asking a question now and then and scoffing or huffing in amusement here and there.  
  
“And of course I was given even more daffodils than usual,” Bilbo mutters darkly. “They seem to think I have a hidden suitor and I haven’t got any idea why they might think that. They’ll be giving me hydrangeas next. Then what shall I do? Thorin?”  
  
Bilbo sits up when he gets no response and to his utter dismay, he sees that Thorin is at his writing desk, looking down at his opened journals and drawings. He nearly leaps up, so he might hide everything, but he supposes Thorin has already seen them and won’t add to his foolishness.  
  
“Erm,” Bilbo says. “I was looking through some things that I wrote not long after you visited the first time.”  
  
Thorin is tracing his fingers along one of the journals and Bilbo’s curiosity (and ardent embarrassment) have him sheepishly sidling up to Thorin’s side so he might see which one.  
  
It’s the last page of one of the journals, with only a drawing, done a few years ago. A hobbit and dwarf, both children, their hands clasped, staring off in the distance at a mountain. It’s not all that good, Bilbo thinks with dismay, but Thorin doesn’t look particularly bothered.  
  
“One of my greatest dreams,” Thorin says quietly.  
  
Bilbo’s mouth falls open in surprise and his heart begins to pick up to a frantic pace. And then he sees Thorin is stroking the mountain on the page and not himself or their joined hands and promptly feels like a fool.  
  
“Oh, erm… eager to get back home, are you?”  
  
“Aye,” Thorin says wistfully. “To a mountain much like this. A solitary peak.”  
  
“Ah,” Bilbo says with a frown. “I drew it that way because I didn’t know how to draw mountains very well. Your… last home only had one peak?”  
  
Thorin’s fingers brush over the drawing of them as children before he clenches them into a fist. “Some might have called it a lonely mountain,” he says. “But I wouldn’t have. It was my home.”  
  
“I’m sorry you can’t be there,” Bilbo says, still a bit ashamed of where his hopes had gone. “Maybe you can go back one day.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Thorin says and looks at Bilbo then. His eyes are focused, his gaze intense, and he looks at Bilbo as if committing him to memory. “Might I have the page?”  
  
Bilbo opens his mouth, then closes it, and nods mutely. He is about to tear the page off before he decides to give the entire journal to Thorin.  
  
“It might give you a bit of a laugh, the sorts of things I wrote in there,” he says as he looks down at his feet.  
  
Thorin is quiet for a while. “Bilbo,” he murmurs, until Bilbo finds the courage to look him in the eye again. Thorin smiles and presses their foreheads together. “Thank you.”  
  
Bilbo still doesn’t know what to do with his hands and grasps at his trousers as he tries to keep still. He pulls back first, overwhelmed by an intimacy he’s never felt before. His heart is pounding in his ears and his fingertips feel tingly.  
  
It's a rather awful and sickly feeling, he thinks, but he wouldn’t mind it lasting a bit longer anyway.  
  
A peal of thunder shakes the smial and lightning lights up the rapidly darkening skies. Thorin frowns at the window before looking at Bilbo.  
  
“I must go.”  
  
“Are you sure…? You can stay, if you’d like, I’m sure Balin wouldn’t want you to walk to your camp in this.”  
  
“I have walked through much worse,” Thorin says with a faint smile. “I don’t want Balin to come again. I’m sorry, but I must leave.”  
  
Bilbo swallows down a lump in his throat and nods. He leads Thorin out of his bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen again. Mother has already prepared a basket for him, covered in a few thick cloths to protect the bountiful foods inside from the rain. She has dried his clothes over the oven and he changes into them in the washroom before appearing again.  
  
Mother hugs Thorin and tries to persuade him out of leaving in the middle of the storm, but he politely refuses. She hugs him tightly then and asks him to come visit again and he promises that he will.  
  
Papa shakes Thorin’s hand and squeezes his shoulder, thanking him for seeing them, until a coughing fit takes him and he excuses himself back to the sitting room.  
  
Thorin watches him go before Bilbo leads him down to the door. They stop in front of it and Bilbo glances down the hall, but Mother has disappeared.  
  
“Bilbo,” Thorin says.  
  
Bilbo’s heart leaps and he looks up at Thorin. “Yes?”  
  
“Your father…”  
  
Bilbo’s heart beats more angrily this time. “Oh, erm… what about him?”  
  
“He’s still coughing.”  
  
“Oh! Yes, he says sometimes they stick. He’s alright.”  
  
“He’s pale,” Thorin mutters. “And it sounds worse.”  
  
Bilbo frowns at that. He thinks the cough has sounded the same all this time and that his father is as pale as he always is, but Thorin does seem quite worried. “He saw the healer a few weeks ago and she said it would go away soon.”  
  
Thorin’s brow furrows as he glances down the hall, then back at Bilbo. “In the Blue Mountains, we mostly deal in coal,” he says quietly. “It gets into the lungs. Has your father ever…?”  
  
“Worked with coal?” Bilbo asks and laughs. “No, silly, of course not. He’s a layabout when he’s not tending to the properties we own.”  
  
Thorin doesn’t smile at this nor look any less concerned. “I hear it every day at home. Please tell him to see a healer again soon,” he says quietly. “It’s likely nothing, but a cough should never last.”  
  
Bilbo swallows dryly, prepared to tell Thorin that he’s concerned over nothing, before he realizes that his father has truly never had a cough like this before. He bites his lip and nods.  
  
“Alright. I’ll ask him to and if he won’t, I’ll call for her myself.”  
  
Thorin’s eyes soften and he smiles faintly. “I don’t mean to worry you. All will be well,” he says, more confidently. “I don’t know when I will leave home again. But I’ll come back.”  
  
“Do you promise?” Bilbo asks, his voice thicker than he’d like it to be.  
  
“I swear it,” Thorin says with conviction. “We’ll see each other again.”  
  
“Then you best be careful,” Bilbo says and sniffs. “Do you know the way back to the woods?”  
  
“Aye, now,” Thorin says. “I know the way to Bag End and back again.”  
  
Bilbo laughs. “Good,” he says and pats Thorin’s shoulder. “Farewell, Thorin.”  
  
“Farewell, Bilbo.”  
  
It seems only natural to press their foreheads together. Bilbo would like to remain like that, perhaps for forever, but he is opening the door all too soon. He watches as Thorin disappears into the rainshower, the clouds dark above, but the sun still shining beyond them. It will set very soon and Bilbo finds himself worried, but the woods are not so very far and Thorin is capable of finding his way back, if need be.  
  
He closes the door and makes his way into the kitchen, where Mother already has a steaming pot of tea and bread with honey butter waiting for him. She sits across from him and they quietly eat and sip their tea and he thanks the Green Lady that she doesn’t ask him any questions or make any comments about the wetness in his eyes.  
  
His father coughs in the sitting room and Bilbo sniffs and dabs at his eyes with his handkerchief. “I think we ought to call for the healer again.”  
  
Belladonna doesn’t say anything for a while as she looks toward the sitting room and listens to Bungo.  
  
“Yes, I think we ought to,” she finally whispers.  
  
——  
  
Of course, not all is well.  
  
Bungo is resistant to the idea of having Missus Brandybuck come, but after another week of coughing, he relents.  
  
Bilbo will come to wish he hadn’t, that if he had merely stood his ground and willed the cough to go away, that it might have.  
  
It doesn’t. Missus Brandybuck says that she isn’t sure what has caused it, only black lungs usually sound like this, and Bungo hasn’t worked in a coal mine or in a forge. But he is very sick, she says, and Bilbo thinks that when she left Bag End, when the door closed behind her, his life was forever changed.  
  
He wishes Thorin had stayed, he wishes he was here, just down the lane, so that he might call on him during the nights that Bungo’s cough never ceases and Bilbo lies in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling and listening to his father die.  
  
He curses himself for not asking if he could write Thorin and the post carriers tell him that without a proper sort of address, his letters would never get to their recipient. Part of him thinks that they merely don’t want to make the journey north, as not many hobbits - certainly, none - have ever had correspondence with the dwarves.  
  
Bilbo can only hope that Thorin will one day come to Bag End again. That, perhaps, it won’t be as many years between his visits. That he might see Bungo and shake his forearm, which had delighted him, so contrary to Bungo’s usual nature of not particularly liking anything new.  
  
Mother grows more pale with each passing month and thinner, until the bones in her hands are too visible and she only has the energy to take care of Bilbo’s father.  
  
He dies early the next summer and as they bury him, Bilbo looks at his mother, who seems to bury some part of herself with Bungo.  
  
In the years leading up to his coming of age, Bilbo feels as if he has lost the last half of his tweens to grief, to sorrow, and watches as hobbits his age exchange daffodils and kisses under the Party Tree, carefree in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. He’s grown up too quickly, Mother says one day, and he wants to tell her that she forced him to, that she has wasted away and forgotten him and left him no choice.  
  
But he knows that is his grief and his mother has lost the love of her life. He remembers the stories of the elves who lose their love and waste away until they are no more, because only half a soul is not destined to survive.  
  
Mother is buried next to Father one year before his thirty-third birthday.  
  
When Bilbo steps into Bag End that evening and stares at the portraits of his parents above the mantel, he thinks that perhaps he has buried some part of himself with them too.  
  
His family supports him in a way they never really have and he lashes out occasionally, angry with them that it’s pity that makes them care, but they take his harsh words and stay by his side anyway. Aunt Mira makes sure he’s fed and his cousins cajole him into sharing ales at the Green Dragon, but color does not return to his skin until the next summer.  
  
When the end of July comes around, he goes to the blackberry thicket and asks Miss Plum’s grave if he might pick some. Her granddaughter, Miss Tulip, a calico, rubs against his ankles and Bilbo wipes his tears, thinking that not everyone is ever truly gone. That they all live on in some way.  
  
Whether it is Miss Tulip at his ankles or Mother’s rose bushes preparing to bloom in the fall, or Father’s pipe, still used every day, in his own hand.  
  
Drawings of Thorin in his journals, growing more refined and skillful with each passing year.  
  
He spends most of his days writing and gardening. He would rather not be in the garden, perhaps leave it to Hamfast to take care of, but he thinks his parents would be disappointed and dirties his trousers with soil every day.  
  
August comes, the sun blazing overhead, blanketing the Shire in a heat that sticks to your skin and makes everyone lazy and a bit irritable.  
  
Bilbo himself is currently laying on the floor in the middle of one of Bag End’s hallways, where the sun is not shining and the wood beneath him is cool. He stares at the cream-colored ceiling above him and pretends he hears his mother’s laugh as she lies down beside him.  
  
That is, of course, when there is a knock at the door.  
  
He groans and flings his arm over his eyes and flaps his hand. It is far too hot for visitors, too hot and too much, always too much. He lingers for a while, hoping that whoever it is decides he’s not at home, and will leave and perhaps not come back.  
  
But there’s another knock, this one quieter, almost more hesitant and he frowns to himself. _Hesitant_ is not how many hobbits knock on the door or ring the bell.  
  
Bilbo groans again and pulls himself to his feet, dragging them as he walks to the door.  
  
He opens it and stares.  
  
Thorin is properly an adult now, isn’t he? And so Bilbo will be, only next month, and he wonders if he looks it, or if he still looks as if he’s a tween, as some of his cousins like to say.  
  
He’s holding a basket, of course he is, but Bilbo finds he can’t look away from Thorin’s face, from his full beard and long hair down to his chest, two braids woven into it now, to the nose he’s finally grown into. From the smile on his lips that fades into a frown all too soon.  
  
“Bilbo,” Thorin says, his voice even deeper than before, a voice that could command an army, if it wanted to, Bilbo thinks wildly.  
  
And he’s crumpling before he means to, but it’s alright, because Thorin’s arms are there to catch him.  
  
“Bilbo,” Thorin says, his warm breath in Bilbo’s hair, his nose pressed against his head. “What has happened?”  
  
Bilbo doesn’t know how to answer that question.  
  
 _Life has happened, in the cruelest of ways, and such cruelty isn’t meant to be in the Shire. Life has happened and it was supposed to be with joy and a smile, but it hasn’t been, and I’m lost and I don’t know the way back home._  
  
But Thorin’s arms are a safe haven and his hands are a comfort against Bilbo’s back, his fingertips pressed tightly against Bilbo’s waistcoat.  
  
“Your father?” Thorin asks very quietly.  
  
“Six years ago,” Bilbo says and curses the painful lump in his throat, curses the next words he must force past it.  
  
“Where is your moth—”  
  
“Nearly a year ago.”  
  
Thorin makes a wounded noise and tightens his grip on Bilbo and they stand there like that for a while, on Bag End’s doorstep. Bilbo’s tears are hot but they slide off of Thorin’s leather traveling clothes, though he doesn’t think Thorin would have minded them soaking his shirt.  
  
“Will you stay today?” Bilbo asks, his voice too small and too young for his ears.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Thorin answers firmly.  
  
And he doesn’t, for a while. He stays with Bilbo through the rest of the day and night, sleeping on the bedroom floor because Bilbo still has enough propriety to not ask him to sleep in his bed.  
  
Thorin only leaves to tell his traveling companions that he will be delayed in getting to Bree and is back at Bilbo’s side in only an hour.

They don’t speak much at first, despite all there is to say, but Thorin’s mere presence helps Bilbo get through his days. He had brought the basket back, of course, still in such good condition and filled with an assortment of blackberries and small trinkets Thorin says he has made.  
  
Bilbo smiles faintly at the hobbits carved from oak, so like his old carved dwarves, and at the dragons and wild boars and a flower that looks rather like a daffodil, but Bilbo isn’t entirely sure.  
  
There are pieces of jewelry, expertly made, a necklace of belladonna, made with purple agate, a gift intended for only one person.  
  
Neither of them mentions Bilbo’s tears as he brushes his hand over the stone carved so well into the deadly nightshade.  
  
Thorin has made smials as well, out of wood and metal, flowers and vegetables in their gardens, and admits sheepishly that his sister is the one who had painted them with his direction, his hand not as skilled with a paintbrush as it is with a crimping tool.  
  
There are even blackberries made of amethyst, so like the real thing that Bilbo is glad he hadn’t tried to pop one in his mouth, which makes Thorin laugh.  
  
He tells Bilbo that some things were made years ago and some things more recently, but to Bilbo they are all equally skilled and beautiful. The thought that Thorin has been thinking of him and his family is perhaps the most beautiful one of them all.  
  
Bilbo asks Thorin to tell him about his life, about his family, as much as he can, because he is still not prepared to talk about his own.  
  
So Thorin does. He tells Bilbo of his brother, only five years younger than him but a rascal from the sounds of it, of his sister, still so young but beautiful and sharp as an axe. He tells Bilbo of his mother, more and more graceful with age, his father still so proud and sure, but often at odds with his stubborn grandfather.  
  
He tells Bilbo that Ered Luin is not what his lonely mountain used to be, but that it is better than it once was. That most people have settled in by now and dwarflings are being born again now that crops have taken hold. A simple life, he says, with the occasional hard winter, but not a nomadic or poor one any longer.  
  
Bilbo listens as he bakes pies and tarts, as he cooks roasts and chickens, as life is breathed back into him again.  
  
He suspects Thorin will leave for Bree any day now, too frightened to ask, too frightened asking it will make it happen, a thought that’s stayed with him all these years. But Thorin doesn’t leave, merely writes a letter to his companions in Bree, and stays at Bilbo’s side.  
  
It’s easy. Perhaps it shouldn’t be so, they’ve never spent more than a day at a time together, but Bilbo looks at Thorin and sees him as he once was, buried in the blackberry thicket with stained lips and a small beard that didn’t quite reach his chin yet.  
  
He sees him as the tween he was, his beard still not full and his hair longer, but not down to his chest as it is now. His eyes rounder with innocence and a carelessness still to his shoulders.  
  
He sees him as the adult he now is, in age, but also in mind. There’s a purpose to his movements and a strength he possesses from within and his eyes are harder with the ways of the world, as Bilbo suspects his own are.  
  
They may have only spent a short time together, but Bilbo has grown alongside Thorin, in many different ways.  
  
Eventually Bilbo begins to tell Thorin about the last seven years. He tells him as he gardens and does the laundry, he tells him as he draws or rolls out pie dough, he tells him as he keeps himself busy, so that it may not all catch up with him. Thorin listens and does not ask many questions, but he responds with faint brushes of his fingertips against Bilbo’s arm or the nape of his neck, with lips pressed to his forehead.  
  
They spend the evenings, cooler now as September flies by them, on the bench outside Bag End, smoking their pipes and watching the sunsets, hands locked together. There is peace here, serenity in these moments, and Bilbo breathes them in, breathes in the golden rays of the last vestiges of sunlight, and lets them heal his broken heart.  
  
Thorin sleeps in his bed beside him now and Bilbo complains about how hot he is, but he always ends up curled into his side by morning anyway.  
  
September 22nd comes and Thorin huffs at Bilbo as he tries to hide birthday letters from his friends and family, for not telling him what day it is, for not telling him he is officially of age now.  
  
His family had wanted to throw him a party, of course, but he had firmly denied that some months ago. He wonders if he would have regretted it, alone in Bag End as he stepped into the next phase of life, and thanks Yavanna for the gift of Thorin’s presence.  
  
Thorin frets for a while and when Bilbo finally asks him what on earth is the matter, he sighs.  
  
“I don’t have anything to give you.”  
  
“Give me?”  
  
“For your birthday.”  
  
And Bilbo laughs. “Oh, my dear, that’s not the way it’s done in the Shire. Hobbits give presents to others on their birthday, they don’t receive them.”  
  
Thorin frowns at Bilbo for a while, as if he thinks that is a frankly ridiculous tradition, until Bilbo is laughing and laughing and Thorin is laughing too, because he can’t help it.  
  
“I know what I might give you,” Bilbo says as he wipes tears from his eyes.  
  
“Oh? A second chin, perhaps?”  
  
“You like my pies,” Bilbo says as he shakes his finger.  
  
Thorin mumbles what is neither an agreement or disagreement and Bilbo laughs again as he approaches him and settles his hands on his chest. Thorin abruptly stops making any noises at all and stills under Bilbo’s fingertips, staring down at him with wide eyes and lips gently parted.  
  
“It’s alright if it’s not something you’d like to receive,” Bilbo says quietly. “I can always bake you another pie.”  
  
Thorin’s eyes soften and his smile slowly broadens. “I’d like both, if you are amenable, Master Bagg—”  
  
He doesn’t get much further than that after Bilbo has kissed him. Kissed him with everything he is, kissed him with his past and present and perhaps even his future in mind, kissed him with a burning love he hopes might be returned.  
  
Thorin’s cheeks are charmingly red when they separate some time later, his fingers buried in Bilbo’s hair and digging into his lower back.  
  
“I know what else I might give you,” Bilbo says against his lips.  
  
And Thorin, ever agreeable, accepts.  
  
——  
  
There’s a shift between them and how could there not be?  
  
But it’s a wonderful one, with gentle touches that hold meaning, with kisses that linger, with love that blooms like the autumn crocus in the garden, bright and passionate.  
  
Bilbo doesn’t pretend that it will ever last forever. He knows that Thorin will soon return to Ered Luin, but it is not as heartbreaking as he thought it might be, with the love shared between them. He finds he is far more grateful than depressed.  
  
Grateful for the life he breathes in, grateful for the way his heart has found reason to leap again, grateful for the way he can smile at the portraits of his parents now and grateful for the way he can hear them say they are so very happy for him.  
  
It is still a day of melancholy when Thorin receives a letter from his companions that they will be in the woods in five days.  
  
It is still a day of melancholy when Thorin prepares to leave.  
  
They don’t say much but they hold each other and press their foreheads together and exchange kisses full of promise.  
  
Tears might be shed when they leave Bag End and walk to the woods, stopping in front of the blackberry thicket, but they are tears not from the daunting thought that they might never see each other again, but rather tears that hold the knowledge that they will return to one another, one day.  
  
“Soon, _ghivashel,”_ Thorin whispers, “soon.”  
  
Bilbo knows the truth of it and brushes Thorin’s tears away and looks into his sky blue eyes, wet and even more bright because of it.  
  
“Soon,” he agrees.  
  
Thorin disappears into the woods to join his companions at their camp and Miss Tulip winds herself around Bilbo’s ankles, looking up at him with large, plum-colored eyes. He smiles and scratches her head before she darts off to chase away a woodpecker.  
  
“I suppose I ought to find something to do with my time until then,” Bilbo says as he sets off down the lane toward Bag End.  
  
——  
  
There’s no denying that it takes a few months for Bilbo to truly settle back into his life, after having Thorin there for nearly a month and a half. But he knows it may be years yet, if he’s unlucky, and that he will not let himself wallow.  
  
So he writes a book.  
  
A book about a young hobbit and a young dwarf, who meet at a magical blackberry bush, and go on an adventure together.  
  
It takes a year to write and edit and polish the story off and add drawings where he can. The rare few hobbits who enjoy books as much as he does are delighted by it and ask if they can transcribe it into multiple copies. They pay him to reproduce his drawings on the pages and he gladly does it, knowing that hobbitlings throughout the Shire will find magic in this tale.  
  
And when he is asked what the heroes of his story do after, he supposes he can only answer that question with another book. And another one after that.  
  
They’re reproduced all across the Shire, not many books in the wide world with a hobbit as the main character, and Bilbo has weekly readings with many generations of his neighbors and family, the very young to the very old.  
  
Mother guides him when he feels lost and Father offers practical advice when he gets stuck and he pushes through life with a joy he never thought he would experience. A joy he had thought was taken away from him once upon a time.  
  
But Mother has an answer for everything, doesn’t she? And Father’s steady nature has become Bilbo’s steady nature.  
  
And Thorin, in his mountain, the thought of him never straying far from Bilbo’s mind, waiting for the right time to come back. He dreams of him, dreams of him walking the halls of Bag End until they’re both old and grey, dreams of him whispering _ghivashel_ into the nape of his neck.  
  
Bilbo longs for him in a way he has never longed for anyone before. He thinks he must have loved Thorin from the beginning, when he saw those blackberry-stained lips for the first time, and though he doesn’t know what the future holds for them, he knows he will always love Thorin.  
  
It has been nearly three years since Thorin left now and Bilbo sits at his writing desk, staring out of the window. It’s a bright day, hot all over again, the August sun baking the rolling hills of the Shire.  
  
He frowns as he sees a shadow pass over his garden and gasps when the shadow lands with a flutter of wings outside the window.  
  
He stares for a while, the glass slightly warped and thus making it hard to tell what sort of bird it is. But of course it must be a raven, dark as the night and as large as a dog. Thorin had spoken about ravens and Bilbo wonders, wonders if it might mean…  
  
Bilbo opens the window very carefully and the bird hops onto his desk, ruffling its feathers and seems to be grateful for the cooler air. He slides his glass of cool water to it and smiles as it drinks from it for a long while.  
  
“I don’t suppose you’re Thorin in disguise,” he says as he dares to reach out and stroke the raven’s glossy feathers.  
  
It lets him, turning its head this way and that, so Bilbo might scratch the right place, and he laughs.  
  
“The blackberry thicket,” the bird croaks, nearly sending Bilbo into the ceiling.  
  
He clutches at his chest. “Oh goodness,” he says breathlessly. “The what… you can speak?”  
  
The raven seems rather unimpressed with his show of obviousness. “Master Thorin taught Blackberry.”  
  
Bilbo blinks for a while. “Blackberry?” he asks and laughs. “Yes, he’s quite fond of them, isn’t he?”  
  
“Fond of blackberries and Blackberry,” Blackberry affirms. “Fond of Baggins.”  
  
“I would certainly hope so,” Bilbo says, his cheeks warm. “What’s this about the blackberry thicket?”  
  
“Master Thorin will be at the blackberry thicket in three days. He asks you to meet him there.”  
  
Bilbo slumps back against his chair and squeezes his eyes shut, his heart fit to burst. Relief floods his veins and joy, and something so strong it can only be true love.  
  
Thorin is coming. Thorin is nearly here and soon he will be in Bilbo’s arms.  
  
“Thank you, Blackberry,” he breathes as he looks at the raven. “Would you like some sausage?”  
  
“Aye, aye,” Blackberry says as he flaps his wings.  
  
And so Bilbo gains a new companion for the next three days. Blackberry is in no rush to leave and says that he will be staying with Thorin - and Bilbo - in Bag End. He is a very polite raven and rather funny as well whenever he complains about Thorin’s restlessness for the past month.  
  
When the third day comes and Blackberry decides it’s time to leave, they walk out of Bag End. Blackberry takes off from Bilbo’s arm and begins to lazily fly down the lane, never straying too far ahead of Bilbo.  
  
Any doubts, any lingering _what ifs_ melt away in the summer sun, and the love in his heart guides him now. The love for things that grow, whether they be blackberry bushes or the love in his heart for Thorin.  
  
Blackberry swoops ahead as they curve around the lane and Bilbo follows, pausing only when he catches sight of the most beautiful dwarf he has ever seen.  
  
The raven flies to Thorin, who is kneeling at the blackberry bushes, steadily picking them. He looks up when Blackberry is near and laughs as the raven perches on his shoulder. And then he stands and looks at Bilbo, his smile growing ever wider.  
  
Bilbo laughs and quite forgets anything about being a posh hobbit with a sense of propriety and runs until he’s in Thorin’s arms, until Thorin lifts him off the ground, as Blackberry squawks indignantly and takes flight again.  
  
“Bilbo,” Thorin breathes. _“Ghivashel.”_  
  
“Thorin,” Bilbo says as he laughs, as his eyes warm and tears spring up. “You’re here.”  
  
“I regret that it took this long,” Thorin says as he kisses away Bilbo’s tears. “But there was much to be done in the mountain before I could be with you again.”  
  
Bilbo smiles and opens his mouth, before the sight of a pony just down the lane distracts him. The pony leads a fully packed cart and Bilbo raises his eyebrows as he looks between it and Thorin.  
  
“I hope it’s not filled with blackberries,” he says hesitantly.  
  
“Only my belongings,” Thorin says reassuringly and with a grin. “I thought I’d get the blackberries where I always have.”  
  
“Your belongings?” Bilbo asks faintly. “Do you mean…?”  
  
“My belongings, my heart, and me,” Thorin says. Blackberry caws. “And Blackberry.” He chuckles. “If you’ll have us.”  
  
Bilbo stares at Thorin for a good long while, tracing his fingertips along his beard and cheekbones, the corner of his eyes, as Thorin gazes steadily at him.  
  
“For forever?” he asks quietly, no longer afraid of the question.  
  
“For forever,” Thorin promises and seals it with a kiss.  
  
Forever lasts quite a long time, Bilbo will come to know.  
  
From this life, filled with adventures and baking with blackberries and gardening under the sun, with visits to mountains far away, and to the next life, filled with lost family and friends, filled with everlasting green hills and the deep heart of a steady mountain, and a love so strong it will follow into whatever life awaits them next.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote 25k for a modern royalty au and had to take a bit of a break cause it's gonna be ... longer than 25k. But another nearly 15k found me anyway!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it. I would love to hear your thoughts! Kudos and comments mean everything.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to [Erin](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/angelsallfire), for simply being the best.
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)


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